


Perfect

by SpookshowBabyx



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookshowBabyx/pseuds/SpookshowBabyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cameron passes out after a differential, House takes it upon himself to investigate. When he begins to suspect that he might be the reason behind her ill-health, he's left struggling between his bitter nature and a begrudging concern for his youngest protégé. ED trigger warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is primarily due to triggering subject matter. Nothing too obvious in this first scene, but future self harm/ ED reference.

House taps his cane thoughtfully against the whiteboard, his back to the three younger doctors occupying the diagnostics outer office. He lets the irate argument between the two men behind him continue for a while longer, hoping that at least _one_  of the suggestions made will spark a theory before it gets shot down by the other.

"It's too risky; the patient won't _make_  it through surgery like that."

"Unless we get a marrow transplant, all of the tests  _you've_  come up with only give us the results _after_  the patient's in the morgue!'

"A transplant will only buy us time, not _cure_  him!"

"Exactly! We use that time to perform the tests!"

House turns to regard Foreman and Chase; both of whom are lent over the table towards each other in this newest and most futile of sparring matches.

"Oh, you two", House chides, wagging his finger at them, "finally coming to an agreement. I was worried I was going to have to give one of you a time out."

Foreman rolls his eyes and checks the papers in front of him.

"Parents adopted the patient and younger sister at ten years. We can check them for a lucky match, but it's unlikely. We should check the sister first, she's the best bet."

"She's thirteen!"

"And would probably like to celebrate her fourteenth birthday in the company of her brother!"

House groans inwardly and waits for his third employee to pipe up at this and join the debate. When Cameron's retort doesn't come in its usual 'guns-a-blazin: no cripple, dying woman or orphaned child left behind' manner, House glances over in her direction curiously. Her back is turned to them as she busies herself with the coffee machine, spooning the grounds into the filter. He notices a slight trembling of her hands which is something he's picked up on recently, and, while the current case is relatively interesting, the flutter of his youngest protege's pale fingers- now coupled with her lack of sickly sweet moral guidance- is intriguing.

"An excellent point, Dr Foreman, I suggest we make the parents see it the same way. Cameron, go get consent."

He prepares himself for an argument, but is distracted by a hard rap at the door. Cuddy pokes her head into the room and glares at them angrily.

"Despite the impression you all seem to have, clinic duty is not an  _optional_  part of the job. I have two patients downstairs sitting in otherwise empty exam rooms. They've been there for over half an hour!"

"Ah, Dr Cuddy, I see the hormones have kicked in a little early this month. Unless they're dying, thirty minutes isn't the be-all-and-end-all of their health."

He turns back to his team in time to see two things; Chase opening his mouth to express a- no doubt pathetic- excuse, and Cameron bent low over the counter; her hand tightly gripping the cream surface in danger of sending the freshly brewed coffee onto the floor.

Interesting.

"Foreman, Chase, get down to the clinic."

"But I-"

"-Now!"

Cuddy barks, before marching off, saving House the trouble of another argument. They gather up their things and leave, grumbling. House ignores them as they brush past, blue eyes boring into Cameron, who still has her back turned to him, and is now exhibiting a slightly more pronounced tremor, with her head bent so low that her long hair spills onto the counter.

"Dr Cameron, care to return to the here and now and go do your job?"

He inquires silkily.

She turns to face him, but it is a slow movement- her hand still gripping the counter for what he now realizes is support- staggering into the motion ever so slightly. Her face is ashen apart from sickly, purple bruising under her eyes, and a thin sheen of sweat stands out on her brow.

"Cameron..."

He limps towards her quickly and presses two fingers to her throat, but rather then being agitated by his invasion of her personal space, she merely seems confused; eyes not quite focused on his own. Her skin is clammy and her pulse is erratic. House hooks his cane swiftly around the leg of the closest chair and drags it over.

"Sit down."

It's a command, and when she doesn't react, House takes a hold of her shoulder to guide her. This firmer touch seems to connect her back to reality, and she shakes her head distractedly, taking a step back.

"It's ok, I'm fine, I-"

Her knees give way suddenly, and House clumsily grabs hold of her upper arms, his fingers digging deep bruises into her flesh through her lab-coat and sweater, his cane rolling under the table. He doesn't succeed in stopping her from hitting the floor, but he slows everything down, and his hold on her arms stops her hitting her head as hard as she would have done on the cabinet behind her.

"Shit..."

Her eyes are closed and her breathing is distressingly shallow. House brushes away the hair that has fallen into her face and notes a disconcerting, blue tinge to her lips. He takes her wrist to try for her pulse again, and despite her thick woolen sweater under her lab coat, her skin is icy.

He reaches for his fallen cane in order to head for the door and call for a crash cart. A groan behind him causes him to look back. Cameron blinks at him blearily, before struggling to get up. Realising that this isn't going to be an immediate possibility, she settles for propping herself awkwardly against the counter.

"House?"

He smiles at her dryly, slowing his pace to the door.

"The princess awakes! Stay put, I am alerting the Calvary."

"Don't!"

The way it comes out, it's less of a word than a yelp, and House turns back to her with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Cameron's eyes are wide as she regards him pleadingly, but he is encouraged to see that she appears to be trying to regain some sort of composure with the rest of her being.

"I mean... I'd really rather you didn't."

"Sorry, Doctor, it's sort of protocol around here to help the weak and sick."

He answers sternly; emphasizing the last three words with jabs of his finger in her direction. She is relieved to see that he is nevertheless walking back towards her again, rather than to the door.

"I'm not  _weak_ , and I'm not _sick_ ; I'm _fine_. I just got dizzy, and it's already passing."

She grumbles and pulls her hair clumsily back into a ponytail. He presumes the desired affect is to give herself an air of control, but without makeup and with her current peaky complexion she now looks about twelve.

House takes a seat, back to front, on the chair he had originally pulled out for her to fall into and crosses his arms on the backrest, looking down at her with only partially veiled curiosity. She remains sat against the counter; long legs now pulled into her chest with her arms wrapped tightly round them. She looks up above her awkwardly and House- following her gaze- raises an eyebrow, but leans over her head to carefully fetch the coffee mug and hand it to her. Silence draws out and she sips it tentatively, aware that his gaze is still intently upon her. He rubs the rough stubble at his jaw thoughtfully as he watches faint patches of color return to her cheeks.

"Now, I'm only a doctor, but rudely passing out during a differential is not usually charted as 'fine'. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was something one should get checked out, incase it is decidedly  _un_ -fine... What's interesting, is that you seem very opposed to this piece of medical advice."

She regards him warily from her position on the floor, and dislikes how her current location allows him to look down at her. She tries again to get up, and this time is successful; the sugary coffee giving her a somewhat feverish energy boost. It's not the most agile movement she's ever made, but she manages to make her short journey over to Foreman's recently vacated chair relatively graceful. House continues to study her shrewdly.

"See something green?"

"...Of course, there are _two_  reasons why you wouldn't want me to fetch the girls in pink pajamas; either you don't want to know what's wrong with you, which, as well as making you unbelievably  _moronic_  would also suggest you'd be well off considering a career change... Or you know  _exactly_  what's wrong with you, but would rather keep that information private..."

"You mean so my boss doesn't spend the next few weeks trying to come up with snarky remarks about how I am, how did you put it? Un-fine?"

"He sounds like a complete bastard; he'll clearly do that anyway."

Cameron surprises him by laughing softly at this before she gets up and saunters over to the door. House watches the enticing swish of her coat thoughtfully.

"So which is it?"

She regards him over her shoulder, raising shaped brows over tired eyes.

"Neither. You're forgetting the third reason; I really  _did_  just feel momentarily dizzy- slightly disconcerting but hardly rare- and am now absolutely fine... True, it doesn't provide you with a puzzle, but sometimes things really _are_  just that simple."

"Well then, Dr Cameron, as you're so  _clearly_  fighting fit, get your little ass out of here and get the parent's consent on the transplant."

"No; it's completely unethical!"

She snaps, marching smartly out the room, her dark ponytail bouncing pleasantly as she lets the door swing shut behind her. House doesn't bother following her with an argument; he knows her objection is simply childish defiance. If the transplant will save the lives of both children she will do her part, but the fact that she's indulging him by playing to her given stereotype is oddly encouraging.


	2. Chapter 2

As the week progresses and the case comes to a close, House finds himself thinking more and more often upon Cameron's little fainting spell. He doesn't quite admit to himself that what he feels is  _concern_ , but one thing he is sure of is that she was right when she'd hinted at his need for a puzzle. Where she had been  _mistaken_  however, was in thinking that she had succeeded in denying him one, and the fact that his young immunologist is suddenly making a painfully concerted effort to avoid him at all costs only fuels his intrigue.

He supposes he could corner Foreman or Chase and ask if either of them has any idea what's going on with their female counterpart, but despite the fact that both men can often be found in Cameron's company, he doubts they'd have a _clue_  what it is he's referring to.

If either man had picked up on something amiss with the brunette, they would have been hounding her ruthlessly; 'big-brother' complexes all round.

As it happens, the only mention either has made as to Cameron's peculiar behavior is the injustice onto themselves that they are having to do their own paperwork for a change in her mysterious absence.

Irritated at his mind's insistent return to his employee, House barges into Wilson's office; seeking some form of entertainment that will keep him from hunting Cameron down and thus having to admit to himself he feels anything other than disdain for her.

* * *

"Oh, good, there's no one dying in here..."

Wilson looks up from his paperwork and sighs as House reclines comfortably back onto the slightly worse-for-wear sofa opposite his desk.

"Yes, please, make yourself at home."

Wilson waits patiently for House to get to his reason for visiting, ready to counteract any sarcastic barb thrown his way in the meantime. When House's forehead creases and the doctor remains silent, the oncologist steeples his fingers beneath his chin and regards his friend with solemn brown eyes.

"So, are you going to tell me why you've been acting so strangely the past few days?"

"Strangely? I _always_  act strangely! It's part of my appeal; my air of mystery. Chicks dig it."

"You should write a book..."

"Don't want to give away the secrets to my success."

"Yes, lest men  _everywhere_  find out the secrets of going home alone and playing lovesick ballads on their pianos."

"I'd hardly call Bach, Mozart or Beethoven the culprits of the lovesick ballad."

"You're deflecting."

"And  _you're_  irritating."

"House-"

"-I can't stop thinking about Cameron..."

Wilson's eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. He opens and closes his mouth a few times; unsure how to continue.

"Okay...?"

"..."

"You mean... Thinking about Cameron as in how she's a good doctor thinking about Cameron, or thinking about Cameron as in... Sweaty, hot and naked thinking about Cameron?"

House scowls at his friend's latter suggestion, partly because with his current concerns-  _yes, ok, they're concerns_ \- the notion is crass. Partly because what he occasionally thinks about in the shower is his  _own_  business.

"I mean thinking about Cameron passing out in the middle of my office and then acting like nothing happened."

"Cameron passed out in your office?"

"I'm sorry, do you need me to write it down? Mime it out perhaps?"

"...Did you call her on it?"

"She insisted it was nothing."

"And you don't believe her?"

"I want to run some tests."

"Ah, yes, well the next time she happens to leave a couple of vials of blood lying around unattended you should get right on that."

"Hey, I'm just trying to look after the wellbeing of my employee!"

Wilson sighs and regards House sternly.

"No you're not. You're curious. Find a case to work on. If you're really worried about Cameron,  _talk_  to her."

House pulls a face which depicts exactly how sold he is on  _that_  piece of advice, before ambling back to the diagnostics department. To his surprise, all three ducklings are present and accounted for; Foreman contently devouring an extremely decedent sandwich while Chase pops a ritz cracker in his mouth whole from a box in the middle of the table. Cameron briskly goes about pouring milk into two of the four mugs on the counter, before handing one to House and placing the boys' on the table in front of them.

"What if I had wanted tea?"

"You don't want tea; you  _never_  drink tea."

"Maybe I feel like mixing things up a bit..."

"Then you can make it yourself; you know where the kettle is."

She huffs at him before taking the last mug from the counter and sitting beside Chase. He offers her the Ritz cracker box and she shakes her head distractedly. Unperturbed, Chase shakes the proffered box a few times closer to her face before she rolls her eyes and takes a cracker from him; pink tongue peaking out repetitively to lick at the salt crystals coating the treat. Realizing he has been watching his youngest colleague's mouth for what is  _probably_  too long, House abruptly shuffles the case files Cuddy has left on the desk and settles on what appears to be the most promising near-death-disaster. Going through their well practiced routine of bouncing around the patient history, the younger three watch House scribble on the whiteboard before heading off to perform their designated tasks and tests.

House makes a few slight adjustments to his inscriptions on the board while grabbing the mostly eaten box of crackers off the table and shaking a few into his hand; chewing them thoughtfully. Figuring that with his team taking care of any immediate situations that may come up, he has the green light to take the night off, he shoulders his rucksack and limps quickly for the door. Passing the small waste-paper basket on his way out he notices one, slightly shiny, ritz cracker.

Interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

Her hair still slightly damp from the hurried shower she'd taken after being woken by the insistent beeping of her pager, Cameron hurries briskly down the hall towards the diagnostics department. To her surprise, House is already sat at the long desk that features as the focal point of the room; gameboy clutched in both hands and a furrow of concentration on his brow. She takes off her coat and scarf and hangs them up on the hook by the door, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands in an attempt to keep warm. The sky peaking through the gaps in the vertical blinds is still inky with night, and the temperature has dropped well below freezing. Fortunately, House actually arriving on  _time_  has resulted in the heating being pumped up full blast in the office.

"Are we the first ones in?"

"The first, and the only."

"What about Chase and Foreman?"

"It's just you and me, kid; didn't see the point in waking up all _three_  of you to bounce ideas off."

"So the patient is  _fine_?!"

"No, he's still dying, just not right this second."

"And I got the short straw _because_...?"

"Well, if I was going to have to sit across from  _one_  of you at this godawful hour, you seemed the most aesthetically appealing option. Shortly followed by Chase. I have to say, I was hoping for some sexy bed-hair though..."

Shaking out her freshly washed curls, Cameron gives him a bemused smile; folding her legs up beneath her into the chair opposite his. She yawns widely and watches as House pockets his gameboy and pulls a large, brown paper bag from beneath his seat.

"Cream-cheese or peanut-butter?"

"Huh?"

"I bought bagels."

House pulls a fresh cinnamon-raisin bagel from the bag along with the two proffered spreads and raises an eyebrow in question.

"Oh, thanks... Actually, I really hate raisins, so I'll pass, but thanks for the thou-"

"Not to worry, I also bought wholegrain."

"Actually, I-"

"-And plain, pumpernickel, blueberry and poppyseed."

She watches open-mouthed as he pulls each bagel out of the bag respective to the order he names them in and spreads the selection out on the table

"And if you don't fancy a bagel, I bought cereal."

He pulls the bag down to reveal its final contents to be a small box of cheerios. Her eyes wander over the food which has turned the table between them into a small buffet and back up to House's which are boring into her intently. They lock stares for a moment and there is a palpable tension in the looks passed between them. House catches a brief flicker of realization in her arrestingly green eyes before she swiftly guards her expression and leans casually back in her chair. She casts her hand over the table

"You bought all of this when you knew it was just going to be the two of us?"

"I didn't know what you'd like."

"So you bought out the gas station on your way over here?"

"Well, we wouldn't want you going  _hungry_  now, would we?"

He cocks his head as he utters the last few words, contemplating her questioningly. Cameron regards him with un-blinking neutrality, allowing a moment's cool silence to pass between them.

"No."

She reaches out for the blueberry bagel and cream cheese and proceeds to cut and slather accordingly, aware that House is watching her movements intently. She brings the food to her mouth and takes a purposeful bite, eyes locked on his with a very clear message.

_I know what you're up to, and you're wrong._

House watches her soundlessly until she finishes the bagel; aware that his stare is making her both irritable and uncomfortable, but not all too bothered about either. She sits back in her chair and glares at him.

"Aren't you going to have anything?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry, I'll just have coffee."


	4. Chapter 4

Limping into the mercifully warm foyer, House chucks the crusts of his lunch into a nearby trashcan and makes his way towards the elevators; ducking stealthily as he passes the doors to the clinic. A well worth precaution it seems, as the glass doors reveal none other than the Dean of Medicine, gaining in size and speed as she approaches. About to make an ungainly sprint, House's curiosity peaks and keeps him where he is when he sees she is being tailed by two of his darling minions. They get to the door and it swings open, spilling the three of them into foyer. House hangs back and takes in the scene with growing intrigue:

Cuddy; irate and exasperated. Chase; nervous and flustered. Cameron; pale and shaken.

"Look, it's probably not as bad as it looked..."

"Not as bad as it  _looked_ , Dr Chase? We'll be lucky if she doesn't  _sue_!"

Chase runs a hand through his hair anxiously; wishing he'd spent a few extra moments flirting with the blonde receptionist at the front desk and thus avoiding this scene altogether. As it is, he had asked the lovely little piece at the desk which room he could find Dr Cameron in, hoping to run some of their more erroneous test results past her. Cameron had been with a young patient and her mother at the time, patiently coaxing the nervous little girl to relax and roll up her sleeve so as to obtain a blood sample.

He had waited for her in the doorway, nodding politely to the patient's mother while watching Cameron swab the crook of the girl's arm with alcohol and mutter reassuringly that all she would feel was a slight pinch. His attention- having wandered as he waited- had been rapidly brought back to the scene at hand by a piercing shriek as the young girl had writhed upon the bed. Running forward, he had grabbed Cameron- who had been on one knee; blinking in confusion at the needle poking out of the jagged cut it had made in the girl's arm with her descent- and shoved her aside to aide the screaming child.

"I don't suppose either of you would care to  _explain_  how a routine blood sample has ended with a seven year old girl needing stitches?"

"I... C-Cameron must have slipped... Right?"

He looks back at his colleague who has her hands balled into white knuckled fists at her sides.

"I- I'm sorry... I just got dizzy I guess... I..."

Cuddy's expression softens slightly. Had it been House who had ripped open a young girl's forearm, such excuses would have no such affect, but the young brunette is diligent, hardworking and not known for making mistakes. She regards Cameron with kind concern.

"You honestly don't look very well, Dr Cameron, you really should have said something."

"I guess I just thought it'd just pass..."

Cuddy sighs and looks down defeatedly at what House assumes is the wounded patient's notes. Sensing that he, at least, is out of hot water, Chase throws the brunette a belated glance of concern. There are bruised circles under her eyes, and a spray of blood freckles her left cheek. She gives him a small, tight smile; waiting for Cuddy's instruction as to what comes next. Closing the file, the Dean gives Cameron another once-over before shaking her head.

"Cameron, you look like you seriously need some rest. Take the day off. I'll let House know he probably shouldn't expect you in tomorrow, either."

"That won't be necessary."

House growls as he hobbles over to stand beside Cuddy. Chase looks nervous once again under his boss's scrutiny, but it's Cameron who has House's attention. She really  _does_  look in need of some serious rest; her skin- in contrast to Chase's- showcasing an alarming pallor; the blood spatter on her high cheekbone so livid in comparison that it looks fake. She looks incredibly tired and impossibly small in the unforgiving light of the overheads, and House is momentarily disturbed by the idea of how easy it would be to just crush her at this precise moment.

"Dr Chase, please cover the rest of Dr Cameron's clinic patients. Dr Cameron, go clean the damn blood off your face and see me in my office before you leave."


	5. Chapter 5

House marches down the hallway towards the diagnostics outer office; cane beating out an angry tattoo on the linoleum. He has an uneasy feeling in his stomach which he wants to call anger, but knows that's not quite right. What he  _does_  know is he doesn't want things to continue the way they are. This is not how it's supposed to work. He is supposed to mock, taunt and tease Cameron about her need to fix things.

 _She_  is not supposed to need fixing.

Recalling her visible anger at him only that morning- and the very clear message green eyes had conveyed to get off her back about the fainting incident- he had felt mildly guilty when she had left to run errands and he had disposed of their uneaten food. He shouldn't have put her in that position, but then again, he had been  _sure_  he was onto something. Even now, he doesn't want to drop his hunch; an otherwise healthy young woman virtually _collapsing_  twice in the space of a week is something even a less  _accomplished_  doctor would recognize as worrying. He wants it to be lack of vitamins, lack of nutrients, lack of food, because if he's _right,_  it would make her an idiot. If he's  _wrong..._  It could mean something worse.

He enters the large, glass-walled room to find Foreman researching a nineteenth century Swedish case which holds a resemblance to the one on which his team is currently working. Ignoring his employee he takes note that Cameron's coat and bag are still on the chair where she left them and grunts

"Tell Cameron to come on into my office when she gets here."

"Ok."

Foreman doesn't look up from the journal, despite the clear agitation in House's tone. It is, after all, nothing out of the ordinary. The door swooshes shut between the inner and outer office and Foreman waits for the dull beat of music that is sure to come. The fact that it doesn't, again, bears him little interest; he simply continues trawling through the notes before him until the main door opens once more and Cameron edges softly into his peripheral vision.

"House says to go right on in."

She doesn't answer, but collects her coat and bag which finally gets Foreman's attention as the two of them are supposed to be working the late shift. He opens his mouth to throw her a request for a Snickers bar if she's heading out for reinforcements, but takes in the image she portrays and stops.

"...Everything ok?"

The skin of her left cheek is raw and red from where she has scrubbed away the young girl's blood, and her eyes are slightly pink. She looks exhausted, and Foreman places a hand on her forearm as she passes him to halt her. She looks down at his palm resting on her arm warily and then into his face which studies her own with an unbearable amount of concern. She offers a thin smile and gently pulls her arm away; shoving her hand into her pocket.

"You look like hell..."

"Thanks, it's what I was going for."

"I'm serious; you look like a girl in dire need of a pizza, some Ben and Jerry's, and at _least_  twelve hours sleep."

She laughs. Harshly and too loud; making the moment a little painful for both of them. Recovering in the abrupt silence that follows, she offers him a slightly kinder smile and shrugs on her coat.

"I'm actually feeling pretty shitty. Cuddy gave me the day off, but maybe I'll take you up on those ideas another time..."

"Well, if you want company when doing so, give me a shout. But only for the _first_  two, mind!"

She finally breaks into a grin, shaking her head at him and walking slowly towards House's office door; feeling a little more like a woman trudging towards the gallows than to her boss's office.

* * *

"You wanted to see me?"

She enquires lightly; her tone neutral and non-committed, which gets under his skin straight away.

_But, then, she has a habit of doing that; getting to him._

"Sit."

She takes a seat opposite him, placing her bag on the desk that divides them, small hands folded into her lap. House takes in the redness at her cheekbone, and pink- ridiculously doleful- eyes. She's either been crying, or has suffered a mysteriously aggressive onset of allergies, and he has never known her to touch an antihistamine so deducts the cause to be the former.

"Hold out your arm."

She feels a mixture of confusion and trepidation; shifting uncomfortably in her seat but maintaining cool eye contact with his clear blue stare.

"...Why?"

"So I can send off for blood work."

"No."

Her last word is soft; barely audible, but firm. House raises an eyebrow and leans closer over the desk; gripping the head of his cane so hard his knuckles turn white, but he doesn't notice.

"Dr Cameron, I'm going to make things as simple as I can possibly make them; either hold out your arm and stop this ridiculous, self-indulgent little game, or don't come back to work on Monday."

"You can't do that..."

Her tone inflects a slight question, and she inwardly hates herself for it. She's pretty sure he doesn't have the power to fire her for not allowing him to pry into yet another aspect of her life, but he is still her boss. More importantly, he is still  _House_ , and if he feels so inclined, she's pretty sure he could come up with whatever reason Cuddy would need to hear to second his opinion. She glares at him icily, but House hasn't missed the worried quirk of her eyebrow or the widening of her eyes.

"If your poor judgement and infantile stubbornness is putting patients at risk, then you really leave me no choice."

"It was an accident! A mistake!"

"I don't believe it's that simple... There are  _many_  reasons for which you were hired, Cameron-"

He leers at her suggestively; blue eyes wandering openly down to her chest, but the action feels inwardly wrong to him, as- sitting uncomfortably in the chair that seems ridiculously large for her, cheek scrubbed raw, the bone beneath high and prominent, her skin alabaster pale- he finds the notion suddenly crass, but he takes care to stay in character

"- but the reason you are  _still_  around is that you do not  _make_  mistakes, as I believe you told me yourself."

She blanches at his reference to her insistence that she had been in the right when he had- and she still believes that is  _exactly_  what he had been doing- sought her out as a scapegoat when things turned ugly with Vogler.

" _Everyone_  makes mistakes, House, I just refuse to own up to something I didn't _do_. The little girl in the clinic... I slipped, stumbled, fell, call it whatever! It was an  _acciden_ t, but it's still my fault she needed stitches, and I acknowledge that!"

"I didn't ask you in here to  _repent_ , this isn't a fucking  _confessional_! I don't give a  _damn_  if you slipped or stumbled and maimed some poor kid! Hell, it'd probably do you a world of  _good_  to realise that even our modern-day Florence fucking Nightingale has flaws! What I _do_  give a damn about is you lying your little ass off when insisting that you're fine! There is something  _wrong_  with you Cameron, and what irritates me more than  _anything_  is that I'm pretty sure you're bringing it onto yourself!"

By the time he finishes his rant, he is only a hair's-breadth away from full-on yelling at her. He hadn't  _planned_  for it to go this way, but seeing her reaction as he berates her only fuels his anger; the way she cringes away from him, the way her large eyes fill with fearful reproach. Mostly though, it's the way she doesn't  _deny_  it when he finishes; his breathing slightly ragged. Silence falls over them and it's made a thousand times worse due to its contrast to House's previous roaring.

"You aren't even going to _defend_  yourself?"

"Why? So you can shoot me down?"

"Oh, stop being so damn _pitiful_!"

"Fine! Why on earth... No... Why the  _fuck_  would I make myself ill? Unlike  _some_  people, I strive to keep my job and my ailments separate! And... A-and even if you  _were_  right... What damn business of _yours_  is it, anyway?"

A tear escapes down her cheek at this, but the gritting of her teeth suggests to the greying doctor that it has little to do with misery. His youngest duckling is monumentally _pissed_.

Good.

"It's _my_  business,  _Doctor_  Cameron, because I am your _boss_. When _you_  fuck up, _I_  fuck up... At least on paper."

"Oh, please, you screw up enough for the _both_  of us!"

" _Precisely_ , the position has been filled! So get your act together and return to being that insufferable little, sensible, levelheaded, tedious  _know-it-all_  we all know and loathe!"

He finally stems the string of adjectives that seem to be battling each other in their haste to fall from his tongue; feeling ever so slightly sheepish at stooping to the level of name-calling. It is something he does well, but the act is only worth it when played on a level field, and she has yet to drop a similar list of flaws at  _him_.

No. She merely sits there and regards him reproachfully.

He wants her to yell at him; to feed him ammunition to blow up with the rage that he can't quite understand why this situation is causing him. He doesn't want her petulant silence, but he can hardly stalk off. This is _his_  office, after all. He childishly tries to force her to lower her gaze- boring into her with icy blue orbs- but all it does for him is allow him to add to his mental checklist of her current state; a well hidden- almost- tremble, redness at her bottom lip where he supposes she has been biting, and a sickly sheen of sweat at her forehead.

There are several causes of such symptoms.

Most would require blood work to diagnose... But not all.

_She ate the bagel._

True, but her reaction to him supplying breakfast had been less than ecstatic. She could be suffering an intense sugar  _low_.

... Or coming off a bad substance _high_...

Moving swiftly, House lunges forward towards her over the table. Thinking he plans to take her blood by force, Cameron backs into her chair with alarm; eliciting an angry groan from the piece of furniture as it drags backwards with her weight across the carpet. House's reaching hands fall short of her however, as he seizes her bag from the table and wrenches the zip open.

"House!"

Turning the modest, black satchel upside down, he spitefully shakes its contents out onto the table. She leaps up to snatch back her belongings, but he grabs her wrists sternly and pushes forward to guide her back into her seat.

"Sit down."

And, now there really _are_  tears as she lowers herself back into the chair; cheeks burning with humiliation. House holds her in place with his gaze for a moment longer before lowering his attention to the heap on the table between them.

Keys, phone, wallet, a battered copy of some Stephen King novel, tampax, paracetamol, some loose change, toothbrush, a moderately cheap looking lipstick, spearmint flavored gum and...

He reaches for the small, dark glass bottle- his face expressionless- and holds it up between them. His puzzle now solved, he feels none of the expected gratification.

In fact, at first he feels nothing at all.

He simply places the small bottle in front of her on the table; waiting for her to come up with some sort of miserable excuse.

She just stares at it numbly.

"...And you're supposed to be the  _smart_  one..."

He growls. He can feel anger overcoming his initial stoic response, and the intensity of it surprises him. She doesn't look at him, but instead remains mesmerized by the small bottle in front of her. He has never wanted to grab her by her slim shoulders and shake her more than at this precise moment.

Shake her  _violently_.

"Speak!"

"I... I have nothing to say..."

And that does it.

He gets up- furious- towering over her. His glare is murderous, and she looks up at him with those  _stupid_ , fearful eyes, eating up her  _stupidly_  pretty face.

"How could you be so fucking _foolish_!? It's bad enough when we see patients using this shit, and we have to explain to them how _idiotic_  they are! How vain they must be that they would put their body through something so moronically _dangerous_! But  _you_!? You  _know_  exactly what this... This  _poison_  does to your body, and you still decide to go ahead and  _use_  it! How could  _anyone_  be that vapidly  _pathetic_?!"

And, he _is_  yelling now; leaning forward to shout in her face, while rapping his cane harshly on the floor to emphasize the words as he spits them out. Her eyes are wide as she looks up at him, her symptomatic trembling now nothing less than full-on shaking. His rage confuses her-  _scares_  her- and the hard contact of the chair against her spine makes her feel trapped.

"...I'm sorry..."

" _NO!_ "

His cane arcs up and he brings it down violently on the desk a few inches in front of her; the wood splitting with the force. She doesn't shriek or cry out as it descends, but she flinches.

She flinches as though she had believed that he had meant to strike _her,_  rather than the desk, and House realizes that if he hadn't been holding the  _cane_ , he probably would have.

The thought sickens him, and sends a shiver down his spine. He knows he could never have struck her with the cane- no matter _how_  angry he might be- but in that instant, with that fucking  _ridiculous_  apology, he would have hit her.

And the thought terrifies him.

"Get out..."

Cameron remains sat- stunned- in her seat; not able to understand how the hell things have escalated to  _this_.

She had begun to think he wouldn't find out- especially after relenting to his power play at their bizarre breakfast- but this is House, and she had accepted that there was some probability that he would break her. In response, she had expected disappointment. She had expected him to call her an idiot. She hadn't really composed a retort for _either_  of these things, but she had not expected his _rage_. Her eyes fall upon the visible fracture in House's cane which still extends over the table; the tip pointing at her accusingly. House follows her gaze and slams the cane back down to the floor; snapping it cleanly in two.

"Get the hell  _out_!  _Now_!"

She hastily grabs her satchel and scrambles most of its contents back into its confines before hightailing out of the room; stumbling slightly in shock. House sits back down at his chair, head in his hands as her massages his temples. The door separating the inner and outer office opens hesitantly and Foreman's creased brow appears around the corner.

"What the hell was all that noise about? Where's Cameron?"

"Gone."

Foreman's frown deepens as he tries to catch the exact context of the word.

"Gone?"

" _Gone_! Now get the hell out of my office if you want to keep your job!"

The door swings swiftly shut, and House slams a fist on the desk before him. He looks down angrily at the mess on the table- scattered loose change, some lint from her satchel and that fucking  _bottle_. He picks it up; examining it with disgust.

Syrup of Ipecac.

Fist tightening around the small glass until his knuckles stand out a stark white, he slams his other hand back down on the desk before hurling the small bottle at the wall beside him; shattering it.

"Fuck!"


	6. Chapter 6

House hunches over the shitty heating vent in his car and takes a swig from a scotch bottle bought at a gas station a few blocks earlier; the little voice in his head scolding him gently for drinking and driving. The voice has always been there- and he supposes most people have such a voice- but for the last couple of months or so, it is now almost always  _her_  voice. Her soft, articulate tone telling him what to do and what not to do; what is in his best interest. He rarely actually _listens_  to its advice, but something about the voice itself is oddly soothing.

Shaking himself out of this contemplation of Freudian bullshit, he looks up at the tall building over the road. Her lights are on, and he glimpses a flicker of movement behind the thin, cream blinds.

He had taken the rest of the day off, after what had happened in his office; yelling at Foreman to go get him a damn walking stick or crutch from the ER. The question as to why his boss's cane was now lying on his desk in two pieces was evident in the younger doctor's eyes, but he had merely consented and brought House a new means of transport. Growling that he was taking a personal day, House had switched off both his pager and his cell and had proceeded to spend the next two hours driving around aimlessly, music blaring.

Eventually, he had turned down the volume and reduced his speed to obey the limit. Nevertheless, he'd still been shaken by what had happened during his and Cameron's altercation. The affect of what she has been doing to herself had had on he, himself, had stunned him. He had been furious- is  _still_  furious- that she could be so stupid.

But then, is he not House? Does he not live in a universe where he simply  _expects_  other people's stupidity?

The answer is yes.

He is deeply disappointed in the young brunette and in just how perfectly she has offered herself up to the 'moronic' category, but it is not the cause of his  _rage_. If it was just her idiocy, he should be thanking her for giving him enough mocking gold to work with and use as leverage for the remainder of her fellowship. No, his anger lies with the fact that she would hurt herself in such a way, and more so, with the realization that her wellbeing has more of an affect on him than he would like to admit.

He is unsure why he has decided to come here. The logical part of his brain has a need to make sure she's okay- not just because of the truth he has uncovered- but because of his _reaction_  to that truth. He knows Cameron to be much less fragile than she can sometimes come across- at least, he had thought so before today- but he equally knows the magnitude of his anger was just as unexpected to her as it had been to himself.

The rest of him, the part that is purely 'House' wants to drive briskly back to his apartment to finish what's left of the scotch and discard all thoughts and concerns of the troublesome immunologist.

Her problems are just that; she can deal with them accordingly.

_He sees his cane come crashing down on the desk. He sees her flinch. Not at the sound, but at the movement. As if she believes the blow is for her._

And, isn't that what this is  _really_  all about? The fact that she had flinched? She hadn't scrambled out of the way, hadn't cowered with her hands over her face to protect herself, hadn't yelled at him to cut his crap, hadn't given him a well deserved slap. She had only flinched. She hadn't just  _believed_  he'd meant to strike her with the cane, she had  _accepted_  it. This bothers him almost as much as the apology that had caused his violent reaction.

_I'm sorry._

He stands by everything he had said to her... Yelled... He had yelled at her. She's an idiot for putting something as hazardous as ipecac into her system when she knows the dangers.

But he hadn't been telling her anything she didn't know already.

What she's _doing_  is stupid.  _She_  is not. She is hurting, and this is a form of self-destruction. Her idiocy is a form of self-loathing. She had flinched rather than stopped him because she didn't _care_  if he hit her.

"Damn you, Cameron..."

He takes a final swig from the scotch bottle and throws it onto the passenger seat. Opening the door of the shitty vehicle and feeling the brutal night air, he rethinks this action and takes the bottle with him, locking the car and limping towards her building; composing and rejecting opening lines of what is sure to be an awkward conversation.

* * *

The phone rings yet again and she remains slumped on the sofa, watching the damn thing light up in disgust.

"Shut up!"

The ringing continues a moment longer before being replaced by a brief second of static, and then her own voice fills the room eerily; telling the caller to leave a brief message with an assurance that she will get back to them as soon as possible.

_Yeah, right._

"Cameron?... I guess you're not around. Maybe you're asleep... Look, give me a call when you have a second, ok? I'm not sure if you got my message earlier... Just calling to check in; you seemed kind of in a bad way when you left earlier... Anyway. Feel better. You know where to reach me."

A dull click as Foreman hangs up and the line disconnects.

She had indeed received his message earlier- which was made up of pretty much the same material- as she had been sitting in pretty much the same position as she is now.

The phone begins it's hateful ringing once more and she places her hands over her ears; eyes clamped shut in irritation.

"Fuck  _off_!"

Again, the static and clicks before her own voice reverberates around her- sickeningly sweet- followed by a final click and a loud, overly cheery greeting.

"Hey, Allison! Guess you're not in right now- I'll try your cell- just figured you'd be home in bed, which is where you  _should_  be by the sounds of things! If you  _are_  feeling better though, how about a drink down at The Boathouse on Chancer's Avenue? Or I could bring you up something if you're still feeling rubbish? Let me know. Later!"

Great. Foreman's opened his big mouth and included Chase in this sudden interest in her wellbeing.

_Whoop-di-fucking-do._

She scolds herself for this unkind thought; friends are not something she really has enough of to take for-granted, and the fact that both men are taking the time out of a Saturday night when they should be unwinding to try and find out if she's alright is overwhelmingly sweet. She drops her face against her bended knees and tries to decide whether to laugh or scream. A hard knock on her door snaps her out of the dilemma.

No. Not knocking. Rapping. Cane on wood.

She wonders if it's too late to simply turn off the lights and feign absence, but it's a half-hearted thought.

"Go away, House."

The rapping stops momentarily, before recommencing at a new, obnoxiously loud level.

"How do you know it's me?"

"For one, the fact that you are continuing to abuse my front door after I've expressed my wishes you leave me alone!"

The knocking reaches an almost unbearable crescendo in response and continues for at least a minute. She dubiously wonders what her neighbors are making of the commotion, and hopes that none of them take it upon themselves to come and investigate. Finally, it falls silent, and she lowers her hands which had been clenched around her head as if trying to hold in her sanity. She can hear stealthy fumbling on the other side of the door and sneaks closer to peek through the peephole.

The hallway appears deserted as House is crouched down uncomfortably, searching beneath her doormat for a spare key. His search leaves him empty handed, and he inwardly reprimands himself for thinking she would hide it anywhere so obvious. She's smart enough not to hide her key in the first place someone might look, but he knows she is also  _anal_  enough to have one around here somewhere as a backup. Eyes suddenly lighting up with epiphany, he reaches a hand up to the ledge above her door and feels around blindly. He exclaims in triumph as his hand closes on a small piece of metal, before exclaiming once more- this time in pain- and dropping the key, which has been heated to an unbearable temperature by the hallway light directly above.

"Shit!"

He sticks his fingers in his mouth reproachfully, before noticing the small pair of grey-socked feet before him. Cameron stands in the now semi-open doorway; slender arms folded as she observes him unsympathetically.

"Do you want me to find you the Oxford Dictionary entry for 'go away' or do you think you can figure it out for yourself? I'll give you a hint; generally, when people say such things, it means 'get the hell out of my house', not 'please, make a spectacle of yourself trying to break in with my own damn spare key', which, by the way, is located somewhere much safer."

"What the hell do you have that one for then?" House growls around the fingers still in his mouth, ignoring the rest of her 'greeting'.

"People like you that don't understand plain English."

"I doubt you encounter enough hoards of people begging entry to warrant having a fake key?"

"Correct, but I wouldn't want to feed your ego by allowing you to think such a key was placed there for you specifically."

House relinquishes his abused fingers from his mouth and wipes them on his jeans. He wants her to continue sparring with him, and realizes suddenly how much he's missed their back-and-forths since their stupid 'date'. Cameron moves to close the door and he quickly extends a foot to make this impossible. She regards his tattered sneaker for a moment and sighs.

"House. Please. I don't wan't to talk to you right now"

He keeps his foot where it is, moving his body to take up the space between the door and the wall. She glares at him reproachfully, but after a minute of silently summing each other up, she shrugs and pads back to the sofa. She knows she can't remove him from her apartment physically, and she has exerted herself mentally for the time being. House moves into the open-plan living and kitchen area and closes the door behind him. She doesn't look at him or talk to him, but she isn't screaming at him to get away from her either which he takes as a positive sign.

Taking in the scene before him, he leans against the wall to take the weight off his leg slightly. She has changed clothes, which he supposes is a good thing; indicating she hasn't come home and crumbled completely. Her current attire is weirdly foreign to him; so different from her usual carefully prepared ensembles that he doesn't quite know what to make of it. She wears tattered blue jeans, a few sizes too large, and he is sure that should she stand up and remove her sweatshirt, they would hang off her narrow hips in a most appetizing manner. The sweatshirt in question is just as weathered, and so it should be, he realizes, as it appears to be an old college basketball hoodie. The name 'Cameron' is printed on the back in peeling letters; victim of one too many rounds with the washing machine, and he realizes he's never found her more intriguing then she is to him right now.

He tentatively approaches the sofa on which she takes up an alarming lack of space and sits on the end furthest away from her. Even at this proximity he can smell liquor on her, and his eyes wander to the kitchen table where he spies a bottle of vodka just two shots away from empty. He wants to ask her how much of its contents she has consumed since arriving home, but it doesn't strike him as the best way to start things off. Instead he takes the bottle of scotch from the deep pocket of his coat and helps himself to a long swallow before offering her the bottle. So far, she hasn't looked at him since permitting him into her flat, and she doesn't do so now. She ignores his outstretched hand and its offering silently, but, as he goes to place the bottle on her coffee table, she takes it from him gently and takes a nip, still withholding eye contact.

"Always had you pegged as more of a wine-spritzer kind of girl."

She shrugs at this, taking another drink from the bottle and wincing slightly as it goes down. He looks from the vodka on the table to the bottle in her hand, to her thin- almost haggard- face and gently plucks the bottle from her slim fingers; placing it on the table. They sit in silence. Cameron waits for House to lose patience and leave, but he doesn't move. Instead, he lets his eyes wander around her apartment, cataloguing her things. Cataloguing her.

Warm, neutral color palette, surprisingly simple decor, cheap prints of expensive paintings, a few framed photographs he can't quite make out from his position on the sofa, a neatly organized bookshelf holding a weirdly eclectic array of books, a small television set he doubts gets much use, a clarinet in the corner which intrigues him, and several pen and ink illustrations strewn on the floor nearby he has to fight the urge to scoop up and study.

"What do you want, House?"

It's a question he was expecting but has yet to figure out an answer to. Studying her tired face and breathing in her scent of liquor, vanilla and a spice he can't quite place, he simply shrugs and tells her the truth

"I want to know... _why_?"


	7. Chapter 7

_I want to know... Why?_

She doesn't answer, and he becomes conscious of the fact he can hear his own breathing through the silence that falls over her apartment. He counts first to sixty and then to a hundred, waiting for her to say something. Anything. He is used to there being tension between the two of them- no stranger to receiving the silent treatment from her- but the circumstances at present are different, and he finds that without his usual cool, sarcastic comments to fall back on, the tension becomes uncomfortable for  _himself_  as well as her. He wants her to go back to the angry quips she had thrown him at the door- giving him something to work with- but she remains eerily still, her green eyes slightly glassy as they focus on nothing in particular.

"If you don't say something soon, I'm going to have to start singing to fill the painfully awkward silence, just so you know...Fair warning... Your move..."

He wants to lift some of the cloying tension- and lame threats seem like as good a place to start as any- though he hopes she won't force him to follow through. His words award him no response however; Cameron remaining despondently frozen, and, despite knowing it to be impossible for her  _not_  to be, he wonders if she's even breathing. He sighs and extends his hand- feeling awkward- letting it fall to her knee and squeezing softly. Her mouth quivers and she swallows audibly before bringing her own hands up quickly to cover her face. House retracts his arm as if burnt, rubbing his fingers subconsciously on his thigh as if trying to rid his fingertips of the lingering feel of her denim.

"Cameron?"

Her breathing is soft, and he can tell she is making a great deal of effort to keep it so, but he can still hear every hitch as her shoulders move up and down tellingly. He tries her name again, this time louder and closer, as he leans towards her, gently wrapping his fingers around one of her small wrists and trying to ease her hand from her face. She tenses at his touch, refusing to lower her fingers, leaving only a small crescent of her features visible from between her palms; the tip of her nose and a glimpse of her teeth which are clamped on her bottom lip painfully. He wonders if she will draw blood.

House pushes himself up from the sofa and moves to stand over her, the position uncomfortably reminiscent to that in which he had yelled at her earlier. He doesn't bother with his cane as he hasn't yet decided to  _go_  anywhere.

"Cameron, look at me."

He says it firmly, blue eyes boring into the crown of her dark waves. When she doesn't react he uses the foot of his weak leg to nudge her own; a step away from crowding her.

"Go away, House."

Her plea is tired. Quiet. Spent. He ignores it impatiently.

"Get up."

His own request is low. Firm. Almost harsh. He supposes it is for this reason that she finally complies. Force of habit.

She stands slowly, hands still covering her face. Without shoes, the top of her head is level with his mouth and he can smell the soft scent of her shampoo. He feels slightly light-headed and he tells himself it's the Scotch, not the pleasant smell that is so, well,  _Cameron_. With a timidity that is entirely uncharacteristic, House gently moves his arms around her. She stiffens immediately at his touch; rigid in his embrace and he momentarily has the urge to step away from her small frame, unable to bare how uncomfortable she is making him feel. Instead, he tightens his hold on her- hugging her closer to him- tilting his jaw up slightly and resting his chin on her soft curls.

They stand like this for sixty-seven seconds. He counts them. Then she finally succumbs; relaxing her body and leaning her face softly into his chest. He can feel her quaking faintly against him, and the hard dig of her knuckles caught between her face and his chest. Without thinking, he drops a kiss on top of her head, before his eyes widen in horror at the act.

When she is sure she has her tears under control, she finally pushes away from him gently. She knows her eyes will be red- naked- but what's done is done and she can't spend the rest of the evening with her face buried into him or she may forget to breath. Her green eyes regard him steadily, despite the water they swim in, and she waits for him to tease her for being fragile. It's what they do. Surprising her, as well as himself, House finds himself lacking in sarcastic comments. Several weak jests at her expense come to mind, but he opts, instead, to rub the rough, calloused pad of his thumb across her left cheek to clean away a solitary droplet. Frowning, he traces the curve of her cheek down to her mouth, softly touching her lips as her eyes widen in something resembling curiosity.

"Your lips are chapped."

She runs her tongue over them, intrigued by the faint taste of salt he has left on her.

"You should put some Vaseline on them, or they'll bleed."

"They've been bleeding anyway."

"Why?"

"What?"

"I want to know why."

"Why my lips are bleeding?"

"Your lips bleed because you're an idiot. I want to know why you've decided to become one."

"Your wording would imply that you had originally held me in high regard..."

"My wording suggests my opinion of you has only plummeted to new depths."

"Yes, you were quite clear on that earlier, I believe I may have retained enough of your  _opinion_  to skip the refresher course."

"Typical Cameron; always needing to be the star pupil... And yet refusing to answer the question. No gold stickers for you."

She sighs at him, placing her hands on her hips; slender fingers pulling the oversized hoodie into a multitude of folds at her waist. The sweater is ridiculously large, and House wonders how she keeps from drowning. She glares at him, before falling back down onto the sofa- exhausted- and running a hand through her long hair distractedly. When she answers him, her voice is a whisper, and he almost has to ask her to repeat herself.

"I didn't know what else to do..."

She shrugs, as if it makes perfect sense. House waits for her to go on, but she just looks up at him miserably.

"Well, the next time you are at a loss of things to do, may I suggest taking up a hobby? Joining a knitting circle is perhaps a better use of your time then-"

"-Shut up, House..."

It's soft, gentle, defeated. She leans forward, reaching for the bottle of Scotch and pulls a pained face as she chokes a large amount down. He plucks the bottle deftly from her fingers once more, setting it firmly out of reach before wandering over to her kitchenette to fetch her some water.

The first cabinet he opens turns out to be a pantry, and he smirks with his back to her at how perfectly its contents reflect their owner. Pulses, lentils, organic tinned tomatoes. No additives, no salt, no sugar. No indulgent stash of Twinkies hidden behind the dutifully sealed and pegged bags of nuts and seeds. Better yet, everything is in what looks suspiciously like size order. He retains a tiny glimmer of hope for her when he spots a small, single-serving packet of fruit loops, but on the whole he'd say she was a lost cause. The second cabinet provides him with glasses. Fingers dancing over a surprisingly eclectic miss-match of cups and mugs he opts for a blackened glass featuring the silhouette of Darth Vader and fills it with water.

"You didn't know what else to do..."

He prompts, taking a sip of the tepid liquid before handing it to her. She drinks it slowly, and he realizes she's opted to go back to her infuriating silence.

"For god's _sake_ , Cameron! The cats out the fucking bag already, you may as well explain how it got in there! Or  _who_  put it in there!"

He growls the latter and it hangs between them. He worries it sounds too protective; it  _feels_  too protective. She doesn't seem hung up on his tone, however, but rather the semantics, as her jaw clenches visibly.

"For someone that doesn't even  _like_  me, you're being incredibly persistent."

It's a cheap shot, and they both know it. His irritation grows when he can't find a good retort. After all, the comment is cheap, but she is merely repeating his own statement made to her previously.

"You're here because of your fucking obsession with puzzles and I'm today's quick fix. You couldn't care less about what's going on with me, so long as you  _know_  what's going on with me!"

She hates the way that- despite it being true- saying it out loud makes her sound like a child. It's not fair. She has a right to feel like this, and she has a right to call him out on it, but fuck, does she hate the sound of her own voice as the words resonate between them. Her own frustration causes her eyes to prickle and well up with the water that has never really left them, and she brings her hand up and smacks herself across the cheek in annoyance. House reaches down and grabs her wrist quickly to stop her doing it again, his angry grip turning her skin white.

"What the fu-"

_"You didn't want me!"_

It's the first time she's raised her voice during this most uncomfortable of evenings and it comes out hoarse and broken. She looks at him- stunned at her own outburst- and from the expression on his face, she might as well have slapped _him_.

"Cameron..."

Fuck, he wishes he hadn't come here

"...I practically offered myself to you on a plate... I'm embarrassed... I-I don't... You didn't want me...You don't want me..."

Her eyes are trained on the floor as she mutters this last part quietly, and, with all the emotion in her voice, she may as well be informing him of the weather.

He wants to leave. He wants to stay. He wants to understand. He doesn't care about her fucking problems. He hates her for doing this to him. He hates himself for doing whatever he's done to her. He hates her for making him realise that he likes her.

House lowers himself onto the sofa next to her; careful not to touch her. He tries to comprehend what she's said.

"You passed out in my office because you were making yourself throw up..."

"No. I passed out in your office because I hadn't eaten anything. I only used the... That stuff... Once. I don't know why. I was going to use my fingers. I guess I knew we'd have it, and knew it'd be quicker. I'm not sure."

Again, that hateful, emotionless tone. She sounds almost bored.

"And you thought by doing that; by starving yourself, by making yourself sick, that... What? I'd  _want_  you?"

The idea disgusts him. It confuses him. She shrugs and he can feel his rage come thundering back. He turns to her, regarding her angrily; her dark hair, her stormy eyes, her pale skin and soft, slightly bloodied, lips. Her lashes are wet but she doesn't cry for which he is grateful. He hates that he can't figure her out almost as much as he loves the fact, and good god, is she beautiful.

"You... You think I don't want you because of how you look?"

"No... I don't know."

"You tried to.. What? Become smaller?... You thought I'd want you if you were smaller?"

The confusion on his face matches her own as she tries to search for an answer. He's wrong, but she supposes in some ways he's right, and that really doesn't give her much to work with. She struggles to find a word- a sentence- to explain herself. She knows, or at least guesses, that he doesn't find her unattractive- he's frequently said as much- but the fact that he doesn't want her makes her feel ugly. She doesn't believe he'd informed her of her many flaws on their shitty date to ruin her, but she feels ruined. It's not that she's someone that's used to getting what they want, it's more that she isn't used to wanting anything so badly.

She may hate the fact, but at her age and with life's experience she has simply accepted the fact that she will continually get walked over. Stepped on. Crushed. She is quiet and unassertive and it's her own damn fault, but that's usually ok!

It usually doesn't matter.

Only, this does seem to matter. House matters. She hates him for it. She hates herself for it. The things she has previously desired have been, for the most part, obtainable. Her interests ordinarily academic, she has always been 'good enough'. But not for him. For House she isn't good enough. She just wants to be  _perfect_.

"I didn't know what else to do."

She repeats her previous sentiment, her eyes screaming there is so much more to say, but her lips refuse to let the words escape.

"You wanted to disappear?"

His question is quiet, and she's not sure if he's asking or musing. It's not quite right, and they both know it, but she nods slowly anyway, as she has no other way of putting it. House pushes himself up from the sofa once more and takes hold of both her hands, pulling her gently to stand before him again. He moves in on her, until their noses are almost touching, before hesitating for a brief second. Her eyes are wide, her breath shallow, but she doesn't give off any signs of wanting him not to, so he closes the gap between them and presses his lips against hers.

It's a soft kiss, but when she closes her eyes, he demands access with his tongue and she gives it willingly; letting it deepen and intensify. His lips are dry and hers are slightly bloody- the coppery taste mixing with the medicinal tang of her vodka- and he pulls one between his teeth gently. He lets his hands rest softly on her back, unsure of where and  _if_  to touch her. At this moment, she is like glass to him, and he realizes he doesn't want her to shatter.

Eventually, he pulls back so he can look at her. Her eyes are still closed, her lips slightly parted. The warm light of the room makes her glow, while simultaneously darkening the shadows thrown by her almost aristocratic cheekbones and the small nick above her eye. He reaches out a finger and brushes it lightly, making her shudder before slowly opening her eyes. He sees fear, confusion, pain and an unbearable hopefulness. He loathes the knowledge that she is seeing the same in him. She steps tentatively forward, closing the space between them again.

"I didn't want you because it would be a car-crash. I'd be nice to you for a week to secure getting laid, and then I'd inevitably be an ass, and you'd get upset and not know how to deal with it, and I'd have to hire a new immunologist and you  _know_  how much I hate change."

"Who _says_  I can't handle it? I wish people would stop thinking I'm so fucking weak and defenceless all the time!"

"Weak? No. Defenceless?... You care, and, like it or not, it get's you hurt."

"I'm a big girl, House..."

"... No, you're not.."

He gives her a small smile, spontaneously running his hands up under her sweater to rest at her waist to prove his point. She allows him to keep them there and he can feel the vitality of her thrumming through the taut, soft skin beneath his fingers.

"When I said I wanted you, I never imaged we'd wake up in each other's arms, that you'd take me out, that you'd become someone else... I wasn't hoping to  _fix_  you... I just wanted you.. And, no, I don't know why... You may not like me, but unfortunately for you, it's not mutual, even though it would be  _so_  much easier if it was.. I'm sorry, House, but... I like you."

Her voice is calm and steady and he isn't sure what he'd expected but whatever it was, this is an improvement. She isn't crying into his shoulder. She isn't weeping for some idealic love lost between them. Her eyes are bright and she offers him a small smile to suggest there's no harm done. A ridiculous notion given the way she has been treating her body, but then he guesses there are parts to her he doesn't understand. He touches the strands of her hair that fall down her chest and they are painfully soft. She smells like vodka, vanilla and what he now realizes is cinnamon and her curls are silk and her eyes shine with intelligence and she's not crying, she's smiling.

"I do like you, Cameron."

"Bullshit."

She laughs softly at him; not wanting to hear it. She hadn't pegged House as the sympathetic type, but then this whole situation is pretty fucking weird.

"Hey, watch your language, I sign your paychecks, you know!"

"No you don't,  _I_  do!"

"In  _my_  name."

"True."

"And it's not, you know..."

"Not what?"

"Bullshit... As much as I hate to admit it, your cunning, feminine wiles have bewitched me, and I find myself less prone to shuddering at the thought of your mere presence."

"You're just being nice to me so I don't poison your coffee tomorrow."

"You know, It's things like _that_  which made me rethink my opinion of you... Nothing like an open death threat to set the mood!"

"What's a little murder between friends?"

"Woah,  _easy_ , I said I could just about stand to be around you, not that I want to buy matching gold necklaces."

"Shut up, House..."

She leaves him no choice when she covers his mouth with her own and gently runs her fingers up his shirt. She reaches the collar and lets her hands divide to push under the shoulders of his coat and shuck the leather to the floor. He guesses it's a little too late to lecture her, and pulls at the hem of her sweater. She takes the fabric from between his fingers and for a second he worries he's crossed a line, but she merely proceeds to pull it over her head, disappearing for a second, before reemerging in a shower of chestnut curls. She shakes her hair out and smiles at him timidly. She wears a thin tank top, sheer and flimsy and he can clearly see the black lace of her bra beneath.

She moves shyly closer and pulls his shirt over his head, stretching up onto her toes to reach and getting the fabric caught momentarily on his ear.

"Smooth."

She shrugs, drinking in his taut stomach and sparsely haired chest. He wonders for what must now be the infinite time why a young woman is aesthetically drawn to a man of his age, but decides now is not the time to worry about such things. He smirks at the sudden darkness in her eyes and she bites seductively at her bottom lip.

"Hey, I have a face you know!"

She blushes prettily, but lets her eyes linger just a little longer before returning to his amused gaze. He extends long, pianinst's fingers to pluck at the delicate fabric of her top, all the while keeping his eyes trained on her face.

"You're sure this is what you want?"

He almost doesn't ask her, she has given him the answer repeatedly, but she is half his age and he needs to hear her say it now.

"I'm sure."

It's a whisper, but it's enough. She doesn't beg him or buck her hips into his or squeal at him to 'fuck her already' like the girls her age he has found easily accessible courtesy of the internet. The situation may be foreign but she is still Cameron as he's always known her and she smiles at him gently as he inches up her top, simply lifting her arms so he can pull it over her head.

She is small like he knew she would be. The pale skin of her ribs seems almost paper thin; the delicate bones softly defined beneath, throwing butterfly shadows with every breath. Her stomach is taut, but slightly concave; accentuating the fine peaks of her hipbones from which her tattered jeans hang just as appetizingly as he'd imagined. He studies her leisurely, while she watches his face intently trying to gage his reaction. He runs a long finger from the delicate point of her shoulder, along the crevasse of her clavicle, and down her sternum between the valley of her small breasts. Her breath hitches and her skin is like silk as he traces the underside of her left breast and strokes softly down the indents and curves of her ribs. Just beneath the dip where the stacked bones finish he finds a small cluster of scars; incredibly neat and accusingly straight. Some are old, but several of the thin lines appear recent. He doesn't comment on them, but merely presses the newest cut lightly before finding her lips with his again.

She cups her cold hands to his face and deepens the kiss, pressing her small body to his, mindful of his leg and the indication to his arousal pressing into her hip. Moving down, she peppers kisses along the stubble at his jaw, hands tracing light patterns over his back, making him arch slightly at the sensation. It isn't what he's used to, and it's almost too tender, but he doesn't want her to stop. Instead he runs his finger softly down her spine, causing her to shiver. The movement awakens him to the goosebumps freckling her arms and chest and he pulls back from her, frowning.

"You're cold."

"I'm fine."

"You're too small..."

It's true, but not as bad as he realizes it could have been. She has always been small- always delicate- but the prominence of her bones is more pronounced than he cares for. She is slim, and as much as she hates the term, her very aesthetic screams 'fragile' but she is thankfully far from emaciated and he guesses it really  _was_  their date and the stress leading up to it that set her harmful actions into motion. His frown deepens as he wonders how long she would have carried them on had he not noticed the changes in her behaviour. He wants to believe this impossible; he is House and therefore incapable of missing something so blindingly obvious.

_But what if you'd left to run tests when she fainted in the DDX room? What if she hadn't wounded the girl in the clinic? What if she'd just called in sick?_

He suddenly pulls her into him- almost crushing her- and places a tender kiss on her forehead, surprising them both. Attempting to shake off the heartfelt gesture as nothing but raw passion he presses his mouth firmly to hers with almost bruising force. Nevertheless he feels her lips quiver as she smiles against his.

"Come on, show me where you keep the blankets grandma knits you before I can add letting you catch hypothermia to my current list of guilt on your behalf."

"My grandmother was a fighter pilot in the Air Force."

"You're joking?"

"Not at all, but if it makes you more comfortable, I believe I have a throw somewhere painstakingly crocheted for me by the mother of a young girl I saved from a dog that'd gone feral."

"Now I _know_  you're messing with me... _Really_?!"

"It's a long story."

"If it involves you taking on Cujo single-handed, I have all the time in the world! Especially as I'm sure what you  _meant_  to say that this ordeal actually occurred during spring break while clad only in a bikini, the girl in question being nineteen, and 'throw' being code for hot, sweaty gratitude sex."

"Hmm...That's an entirely  _different_  story."

"Tell it anyway."

"Well, once upon a time..."

* * *

Cameron flicks the switch to start up the coffee machine lazily, expecting the other three to come filtering in shortly. She wanders absentmindedly over to the white board as the water heats and tests the pens scattered on their shelf below. Finding the blue to be worn to a fuzzy, ink-less mess, she tosses it neatly in the trash and fetches a fresh one from the supply closet.

The red light of the coffee machine turns green and she reaches up to the cabinet above the sink to retrieve mugs for the four of them. The crockery comes from a set bought on hospital budget and as such, is a cheap white ceramic; House's mug obnoxiously red amongst the others. For this reason, the light green addition to the regimented row is immediately obvious. She brings it down to study it, a warm grin touching the corners of her mouth as she traces the stooped figure of Yoda emblazoned on the front, and notices a post-it note stuck to the side.

_Eat this, you will._

She pulls out the package that had been wedged into the mug and recognises it immediately to be the fruit loops from her pantry.


End file.
